


Bold Enough To Fall

by bitmischievous



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, He's the captain it's cute, High School AU, I mean, M/M, and Perrie and Eleanor if your squint, at some point they get frisky on Anne's couch, footie!louis, marcel fic, they're all briefly in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:24:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitmischievous/pseuds/bitmischievous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcel has been, well, pining on the star of the soccer team, Louis Tomlinson, since they shared a class last year. That's whatever, though. It's not like he's going to keep dwelling on it. Of course, now said soccer captain requires constant tutoring to stay on the team and as Marcel's luck would have it, he's been deemed the tutor. </p><p>In other words: Marcel is a pining dork and Louis is the popular sweetheart. They kiss under the bleachers sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bold Enough To Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheekiestcheeky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekiestcheeky/gifts).



> Hello! So, I may have developed an unhealthy obsession with Marcel. Oops. But, Amy has too, which is why this is a birthday gift to her. So, yep. Any mistakes are mine as I don't exactly have a formal beta, I just get any of my willing friends to tell me if it's ok. 
> 
> Title if from the song Guts by All Time Low.  
> (Fic alternately called ily amy hpy bday)

Marcel has never been more relieved to hear the end of the day bell.

He picks up his assignment, placing it gently into his folder, and tucking his work into his bag, ready to get home and sleep the weekend away. It’s that time of year where he starts receiving so much coursework that his brain begins to melt and cave in, and Marcel really doesn’t know how to cope with that just yet. He momentarily cries at the thought of attending the science olympiad meeting right after school today. 

Meanwhile, everyone around him stands, chatting animatedly about the soccer game that evening and their plans for the weekend. Somewhere to his left he hears Eleanor Calder, president of the theatre department, talk about the big party at Liam Payne’s house and Marcel just zones out. He doesn’t particularly care for the soccer team, really, so there’s no use in listening. 

He makes his way to the door, accidentally running into someone. He grimaces, waiting for the person to chew him out. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

A short girl with nearly metallic blonde hair--Perrie, he reminds himself--smiles. “My fault, Marcel. Go ahead,” she gestures, letting him through the door. He breathes “Thanks,” in return.  

He stumbles into the hall, packed with students hastily trying to get out of the school and home as fast as possible. He makes a beeline towards his locker where he has his science olympiad stuff, unlocking it and exchanging his literature book for a white binder. Inside his locker he also finds his lunch bag which has some grapes left over in a plastic container. He plucks the container out and tucks it into his satchel. His name is neatly printed in permanent parker along the top of the lid. 

“Hey, Marcel.”

He looks around and doesn’t see anyone until he’s closing his locker and he sees Zayn standing behind it.

He startles, jumping a little, making Zayn chuckle. “Sorry, mate. Thought you’d seen me.”

“It’s okay,” Marcel wheezes a bit, heart thumping. "I only had a minor heart attack." He shuts his locker completely, beginning to walk and Zayn falls into step with him, looking thoughtful. 

“You excited for competition? I’m already studying since, you know, I don’t do well when I cram.”

Marcel hums, recalling how stressed out Zayn gets with academic competitions, considering how relaxed he usually is. It's an interesting dynamic, he decides. 

“I’m really nervous about the robotics sect. My prototypes keep falling apart. You’re on my team again this year, right?” he asks.

Zayn nods. “‘Course, mate. We’re not gonna let that snob school from last year beat us again. After all, theirs was only just a bit more aesthetically pleasing.”

They keep chatting idly, and Marcel asks how the musical is doing. The thing about Zayn is that, aside from taking honors courses and doing academic competitions, he is also doing technical stuff for the school musical and working with the score. Not to mention he’s involved with the photography club. Marcel assumes that Zayn will get into any university he applies to with ease, and that’s not taking into consideration how blindingly attractive he is. 

Some people just have it all, he supposes.

They walk into Marcel’s physics class where Ms. Martin is fitting over some contraption. 

The metal box sparks and she jumps back, smoke curling around her like a halo. “Oh jeez,” she mutters, pulling back her goggles and fanning at the haze.

Marcel stifles a laugh. “Ms. Martin, are you alright?”

She looks over at the boys, draping her long hair back over her shoulder. “I’m alright, love. Just trying my best not to burn the school down, is all,” she jokes.

Zayn inspects over her shoulder. “Ms. Martin, you crossed two wires on accident. The blue and the purple are switched.”

She leans in, examining it, and laughs. “Well now I just feel silly.”

“What are you working on?” Marcel is thumbing through the papers around her desk, looking at the messy sketches. 

“It’s meant to be a can opener. Mine broke this morning.”

Marcel doesn’t say anything, just lets Zayn and Ms. Martin work on the can opener while he props open a spare textbook and reading. Other students start piling in, their own individual work in front of them in no time. 

When the class is full, Ms. Martin passes out the signup sheet for everyone to list what they’ll be competing in, telling them to do some independent practice while she tries to sort out her paperwork and Zayn continues on the can opener. 

Fifteen minutes later, the class has abandoned their work to talk and no one hears the knock on the door but Marcel. He gets up to answer, unbolting the door. 

He feels his breath hitch, mostly because he's a bit surprised, when he sees the soccer captain standing there, arm holding a textbook. So, that was a lie. His breathing stops because he's a bit smitten. 

Sue him. 

“Is Ms. Martin here?” he asks, peering over Marcel. 

“Uh, yeah,” Marcel says, stepping aside and letting Louis in.  

Ms. Martin looks up from her stack of papers. “Oh, Louis. What can I help you with, darling?”

Marcel watches him walk up to Ms. Martin, placing his textbook gently on her desk. He pulls out a folded note from within the binding, placing it in front of her. “I was wondering if you could sign off for me to play tonight?” Louis is tugging on the sleeves of his letterman, letting them fall over his fingertips. 

He shouldn’t be listening, Marcel knows that, but he’s oh so intrigued. He sits down at his desk again, trying to subtly listen.

He hears Ms. Martin sigh. “Louis, you know I can’t do that when you’re still failing.” 

Louis’ brow furrows. “There must be a way. It’s one of the most important games of the season.”

He sounds so incredibly distressed and Marcel feels his heart ache a little.

Right, so he may or may not have a thing for Louis Tomlinson. But, like, Marcel isn’t sure there’s anyone out there who doesn’t feel weak in the knees when they see him. It’s kind of impossible considering he is probably the most attractive person Marcel has ever seen (aside from Zayn, of course), and he looks that much better in his soccer uniform. To make it worse, Marcel had actually had a class with Louis before and he knew the boy was polite, and funny, and just completely lovely.  

Fuck him, right? 

“Listen, Louis, I like you. I really do. You’re a good kid and you try your best in my class, but unless you find yourself a tutor and get your grades up, I can’t sign off for you to play.”

“What if I promised to have a passing mark by the end of the grading period? I swear if you sign off, I’ll find a tutor by tomorrow. Please, Ms. Martin.” 

Marcel looks up to see Ms. Martin worry her lip, looking away from Louis and off to the side. Her eyes then meet Marcel’s and light up.

“Marcel!” she calls, waving him over. 

He feels himself still, pointing to his chest dumbly. Ms. Martin nods frantically.  

He drags his feet to her desk, trying not to mind Louis’ gaze on him. He tugs on the hem of his vest.

“Yes, Ms. Martin?”

“Marcel, you know Louis?”

Silly question, but, “Yeah, I do.” He actually looks at Louis when he says that and tries not to let his stomach swoop at the smile the boy gives him.

“Hello,” he says politely.

“Louis need to have a tutor until his grades go up and if he finds one today, he can play in the game tonight. You’re one of my brightest students, Marcel. Would you be willing to tutor Louis? I'd offer you extra credit, but you don't exactly need it.” 

She's looking up at Marcel through her glasses with big, brown eyes and he doesn't want to disappoint her. "Um, sure. I'm not a very good teacher, though."

They all turn sharply when they hear something glass shatter. Ms. Martin sighs, getting up to clean the mess caused by a broken beaker. 

"Nonsense, you'll do fine. Talk it amongst yourselves, boys." She walks away, already snapping on a pair of gloves. 

Marcel looks over at Louis who is staring at him. "So, do you want to do these sessions after school?"

Louis shakes his head. "Sorry, but I have soccer practice after school." He frowns, apologetic. "Could we do it in the mornings instead? Maybe, like, twice a week?"

Marcel bites the inside of his cheek. He absolutely dreads mornings, much preferring to wake up past ten (not any later, of course), but he nods regardless. He’ll just have to drink stronger coffee.

“Great! Thanks, Marcel. You’re a lifesaver, honestly.” He’s grinning, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle and Marcel feels his heart stutter. He nervously pushing his glasses farther up his nose. Louis extends his hand then, and Marcel gives him his own tentatively. With smaller hands, Louis takes a felt tip marker and scribbles down a row of digits on Marcel’s palm. “We’ll talk details later, yeah? I have to run right now. Text me." 

Marcel swallows a nervous lump. “Okay.”

“See you around.” With that, he’s out of the room, Marcel’s gaze still glued to the numbers on his hand. The ink has started to bleed over the ridges of his skin, leaking and spreading. He hurriedly pulls out his mobile phone to save the number in, typing left-handed.

With the contact saved, he bites his lips before sending off a simple text. He has to reword it a few times, and then eventually settles on something short and to the point. 

_It's Marcel, just making sure you get my number, too._

Christ. 

He walks over to Ms. Martin, defeated.

“I’m going to tutor him.”

She looks up, smiling. “Great! He knows what he needs to work on, so just discuss that. I’ll give you library passes, or even passes to my room if you guys want to study here. Thanks, yeah? He’s a good kid, he just struggles a bit.” Marcel just blinks at her, nodding belatedly. She turns to address the whole room. “You are all dismissed. Next friday we’ll talk in a group, yeah?" 

Marcel heads back to his desk to pack his stuff for a second time, stuffing papers carelessly into his bag, mind a little scattered.  

“So, Louis Tomlinson, huh?” Zayn teases, pulling on a strand of hair that had fallen into the taller boy’s face. Marcel swats his hand away, making Zayn chuckle, and stands straight to face his friend.  

He tries to play it cool. “What about him?” Marcel goes to cock his hip onto the table, but he misses, losing his balance. His arms windmill out to catch himself. 

“Mate, honestly."

Marcel's cheeks tinge pink, and Zayn just shakes his head. "I'm gonna tutor him," Marcel supplies simply, shrugging. "S'nothing special."

"And yet you're losing it internally. I can tell." Marcel doesn’t say anything, just slips his bag onto his shoulder, and heads towards the door. Zayn trails behind him, grinning. “You’re giddy about it, don’t even hide it.”

His resolve breaks, and Marcel allows himself to smile full on, eyes squinted, and lips pulled back, showing two rows of perfect teeth. Three years of braces (and even several months with a metal headset, good grief) had done it’s work.  

He breathes out. "Fine, yes. I'm really excited for it. Can you blame me, though? He's so beautiful." The shaky breath develops into a sigh, followed by a hitch as he realizes what he just said. "I mean, uh, fit. He's fit."

Zayn is smirking, his tone light and teasing when he says, "Whatever, mate. Just remember you actually have to help somehow. You can't just gawk at him and expect him to pass."

Marcel wrinkles his nose. "I'm not an idiot, Zayn. I'll get the work done. You forget we shared a semester of English."

"During which you would stare at the back of his head and blush when he asked to borrow a pen." By now, the boys are pushing open the from doors of the school, walking up to the intersection leading into the neighborhoods adjacent. It's cold out since they've just managed to make it out of February, and Marcel wraps his arms around himself, trying to keep warm.

"Which he never gave back, for the record," he mumbles.

"Like you mind."

"Debatable."

Zayn turns to look at Marcel. "I wish you the best of luck, then," he says, eyes peering over Marcel to check if the streets are clear. "Keep your blush in check."

As if on queue, Marcel's cheeks dust ever so slightly. "I will." 

What he should have said was "I'll try."

 

~*~

 

Marcel spends his entire weekend exactly how he wanted to. He does his homework upon arriving home, and talks to his mum over telly in the evening while they eat their take out. After finishing one of the dramas his mum watches, they flip through the channels, settling on _Tangled_ after Marcel asks his mum to keep it there, excited that it's just started. 

She smiles, and ruffles Marcel's hair, which now hangs in a flop of messy curls after his shower. He swats her away, grumbling, causing the pillow in his lap to tumble off. Dusty takes advantage of the moment, hopping onto Marcel's now open lap, purring.

He sleeps in the following morning. When he wakes up, it's past ten, so calls his sister who is a town over in university while baking cupcakes for the hell of it. It's around two o'clock when he finds himself with nothing to do, so he naps.

And sunday is spent similarly, watching Netflix, and texting Zayn occasionally. 

Until, of course, it's sunday evening and his phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.

Marcel looks away from the pasta sauce he's stirring, and he nearly drops his spoon over his bare feet when he sees _Louis T._ illuminating the screen.  

Shit. _Shit._

"Don't panic, Marcel," he mumbles, before mentally slapping himself.

He thumbs the text open.

_hey, marcel! It's Louis, just making sure we r still on for trmw? Im taking my textbooks and notes, but it would probs be best if you took ur notes too maybe they will make sense if u teach me the way u know? Whatever is best, Im not picky haha. Let me know._

_louis :)_

God, Louis sure does type a lot. And Marcel doesn't even know how to begin to reply.

 _Hello, Louis. We are definitely still on. I'll make copies of my notes and annotate them so you can understand them too and bring them tomorrow. See you then._  

He cringes at the formality, but sends it anyway.

His heart is hammering as he sets the phone down.

It buzzes instantaneously. 

 _Can't wait._  

And then, 

_Thanks, Marcel!_

He decides not to reply anything else, locking his phone and shoving into his pocket.

His tummy is fluttering, and he isn't sure why, because It's not like Louis said anything that interesting anyway.  

Marcel sighs, pressing his lips in a thin line. 

His attentions turns back to the pasta sauce as he ignore the definite heat that settles on his cheeks and the way his glasses fog a little.

Perhaps it's due to being to close to the stove. 

Yeah, that's probably it.

 

~*~

 

Marcel hates any time of the year that Starbucks doesn't serve pumpkin spice lattes. He grumbles out with something warm in his hand that has way too much caramel, and a slice of banana nut bread.

God, he loves banana nut bread.

Marcel walks into the school, balancing his books in his arms, satchel slipping off of his shoulder. 

Typical. 

Fortunately, he manages to get to Ms. Martin's class with his jumper only slightly askew. 

Louis isn't even there yet. 

Also typical. He recalls Louis getting to English late nearly every day, hair flopping into his eyes adorably like he'd sprinted to class. He was excused, obviously, smiling sweetly and looking at the teacher with his bright baby blues. His cheeks had also been flushed, and Marcel had mirrored his expression with a blush of his own upon seeing him.

God, he was so pretty. 

And still very much is. 

Marcel's startled out of his thoughts when Ms. Martin walks into the room, hair disarrayed in a messy bun, and jacked buttoned one button off.

"Rough morning?" he asks, concerned.

"You have no idea. My coffee machine stopped working this morning, and this is the result." Her hand gestures towards herself.

She collapses into her chair.

Marcel's eyebrow raises curiously. He nearly offers his cup, but he's not entirely sure he can give up his only source of life in the mornings. He clutches his cup protectively.

He settles for an awkward, "You seem to be breaking a lot of appliances lately, Ms. Martin." 

She sighs. "You know, if I knew why, I'd tell you." Ms. Martin straightens up then, pulling out a bunch of paperwork. "Help me grade? I nearly finished it all last night, but I have a few short quizzes left."

Marcel is about to shrug sure when Louis dashes into the room. 

"I'm late, I know. I'm so sorry."

Marcel is staring at him blankly because clearly it is too early to deal with Louis Tomlinson. Honestly, he looks so nicely put together and well-rested Marcel wants to hide his own face, tugging on the sleeves of his jumper self-consciously. Louis just--his hair just falls so naturally, like feathery carmel, and Marcel has to resist the urge to approach him and run his fingers through it. The only thing worse are, quite possibly, his eyes. They shine unnaturally bright and clear behind his glasses, making Marcel's unsure whether this boy is even real or not.

And god, Marcel would much rather not dwell on those glasses. They're death, possibly. He never thought he’d find glasses sexy, and definitely not considering the ones he wears, but Louis makes him reconsider that. 

Louis makes him reconsider a lot, actually. It almost feels like a heavy and grinding weight.

Suppose it’s called a crush for a reason.

“Marcel?”

He looks up. Apparently, he’s spaced out, which, okay, embarrassing. 

He goes crimson. 

Louis is staring at him with a small smile. "You with us, mate?"

Marcel swallows down more self-consciousness. 

"I guess I'm just tired. It's a little early," he lies. 

Louis grins suddenly. "Oh, which reminds me, I've brought you coffee." He's holding out a cardboard cup with _Marcel :)_ written on it, and the younger boy feels his stomach do a weird swoopy thing. "I hope you like vanilla lattes?"

Marcel feels his mouth open and close to reply. He feels a little overwhelmed by Louis' sheer _cute_. 

"I, uh, already have a coffee, actually," he stammers, gesturing to his now lukewarm cup of coffee with the name _Marshall_ scribbled on the side. 

Louis frowns, and Marcel mentally kicks himself. "Oh, well." Louis looks completely lost, unsure what to do with the cup he's holding, until Ms. Martin stands up and plucks it from his hand. 

"Thank you, Louis." She drinks from it eagerly. "I would have gone with a white chocolate mocha, personally, but this is good, too." 

Louis' face relaxes. "I would have, too, but I wasn't sure Marcel would like it."

Marcel smiles apologetically. "Sorry you had to go through all that trouble for nothing."

Louis shakes his head. "No, no. Don't even worry about it, Marcel. Let's just work on physics, yeah?"

Marcel nods, taking a seat at the desk where he'd left his notes. Louis sits down next to him, as opposed to in front of him where Marcel assumed he'd be sitting. Already the body heat is unbearable.

Marcel is about to start speaking, thumbing through his notes, when Ms. Martin sighs loudly at her desk.

"Sorry for interrupting you, boys, but I have to leave for a meeting. If you have any questions, write them down on a sheet of paper and leave it at my desk or something."

She's out of the room briskly, grumbling.

"Right, so."

"We're studying, like, potential and kinetic stuff right now." Louis says. He doesn't sound all that convinced. Marcel cocks his head, smiling, and Louis chuckles. "I mean, like, energy. That's it. It's just really confusing with all the terms."

"I see what you mean. Hmm, well, I have a list of all of the vocabulary in my notes. Some things are unimportant, and I've crossed them out. Things you really need to know have little stars." Marcel begins to place sheets in front of Louis, the older boy just looking at him intently. Marcel wills his face to cool down. His gaze flickers to meet Louis' and he's surprised when the other boy looks down immediately, like he's been caught. 

Marcel feel's something warm and _dumb_ bubble inside of him. 

"So, maybe I can work some sample problems for you?" he mumbles. 

"Yeah, that sounds good."

Marcel gets out two pieces of scratch paper and write down something simple. He sets up the equations, labeling each variable, and then substituting the numbers.

He hands Louis the paper, who looks a little nervous. 

"Physics won't bite you, Louis."

His cheeks dust a soft rose color for a few seconds. "I'm just apprehensive because if I don't get it now, I won't be allowed to play."

Marcel understands. He doesn't particularly empathize with inability to understand material considering learning has always been second nature to him, but he does in other aspects. Physics to Louis is what physical education was to Marcel. If there was ever a time when Marcel came close to failing it was P.E. 

"If it's any consolation, I get hurt any time I'm anywhere near a soccer ball," he confesses. 

His comment has the desired effect, causing Louis to snicker. "Is that so?"

"Definitely. My sister reckons I'm constantly standing on stilts."

Louis bursts into a loud laugh at that and Marcel tries to hide the way he swells with pride under the attention. 

"That is so undeniably accurate, really, mate. Your legs go on for _days._ "

Oh, _gosh._

Marcel glows at the complement. 

"Thanks, I guess," is what comes out, which is good. Smooth. 

Silence covers them like a veil as Louis takes the sheet and begins to work on the problem.

"Tell me if I do this wrong." Louis pauses, looking up. He observes Marcel for a few moments, making the younger boy dwindle under the scrutiny. The tension Marcel builds in his mind melts when Louis beams at him. "And maybe, as a thank you, I can work with you on those soccer skills, yeah?"

Marcel feels his lips twist upward without his consent. "Y-yeah."

 

~*~

 

A few weeks later, Marcel gets a text from Louis on a Tuesday night telling him that they'll do more tutoring the following Friday morning. 

They've been doing that occasionally. Texting, that is. Louis' big test is the coming Monday, and so they've been reviewing everything he's learned thus far. 

It was all fine and dandy until he adds,

_And this time, let me buy you your coffee !! x_

And then Marcel goes into a minor freak out moment.

Because of course, _of course_ , Louis is going to be polite and lovely throughout their entire quasi-friendship. As if Marcel’s crush (he referred to it as a preexisting condition sometimes), need more justification.

Or something.

"You okay, honey?" Anne says as she sets the table. 

Marcel sighs deeply, sluggishly walking towards his mum, wrapping his arms around her loosely. "I'm not entirely sure."

"Well that answers my question so well," Anne deadpans. 

Marcel debates on whether or not tell Anne about his crush on Louis. If he doesn't, he'll probably spend the rest of the evening singing to his Alicia Keys and Leona Lewis playlist alone, dwelling on the warmth in his chest. But, if he tells his mum, she'll be the one making him dwell by asking for more details until he brings him home or something equally ridiculous. 

He lets her go, sitting down at the table, cradling his head in his hands. "I like a boy."

He doesn't need to look up to know what Anne's face looks like when she squeals. 

_Christ._

"Oh, honey, who is it?" Her voice is level, like she’s trying to keep it cool. Marcel appreciates that, really. 

_It’s now or never._

“His name is Louis. He’s a grade above me, and he’s the captain of the soccer team.”

Anne is quiet for a moment, and then, “Is he cute?”

“ _Mum,_ ” he whines, but then mumbles. “Yeah. Like, ridiculously so.”

Anne is beaming. He can feel it. “What’s he like?” She walking back into the kitchen now, getting the tray of lasagna where it’s sitting on the stovetop. 

Marcel sighs deeply. And no, it wasn't a smitten sigh. “Uh, he’s really talkative and he laughs a lot. He’s got these pretty blue eyes, and he’s, like, tiny, I guess?"

Anne snorts. "He sounds very nice. Care to help me with the drinks, dear?" she calls back from the kitchen and Marcel get's up.

Well, that was easy. 

"Have you told Gemma?" she asks conversationally, stirring a pitcher of lemonade. 

Marcel holds back a laugh. "Are you kidding? She would never let me live it down. She thinks I'm a dork as it is. Besides, it's not like this is going to go anywhere."

Anne frowns, setting her spoon down. She levels with Marcel, and even though she's a few inches shorter than him, Marcel still feels like he's looking up at her. "Listen to me, Marcel. You are a lovely, sweet, and handsome young man. Sure, your taste in clothing is questionable, I won't lie to you, but that's what you like. You're more familiar with books and movies than you are with popular outing sites, and I'm perfectly fine with that. You're _you._ When someone falls for you, they're going to fall for all of you, and you'll deserve every bit of the attention, you hear me? You are _not_ a dork." 

Marcel doesn't even know what to say. He gapes at her silently, searching her gaze for some sort of indication that she is just saying that to be a _mum_ , as if by mere obligation. Her eyes show nothing, he finds, continuing to stare at Anne with something itching his eyes.

 _Tears, probably_ , his brain supplies.

"Thanks, mum. You didn't have to. Say all that, I mean."

Anne pulls him in, cuddling him, shushing. "Nonsense. You're wonderful and deserve to hear so. Now, how about dinner?"

 

~*~

 

"What is the potential energy?"

"I don't know."

"You have the mass and the height. Now what's the gravity?"

Louis sighs exasperatedly. "I don't know! Eight?"

"Ten! You multiply by _ten._ Add a bloody zero, Louis!" Marcel grits out, not bothering to hide his annoyance. 

It had been a particularly bad morning, Marcel having completely forgotten to set his alarm, racing to school with his shirt half buttoned, fly undone.  

Louis must had had a bad morning, too, because his hair was tucked into a beanie and we has dressed in comfy sweats rather than his usual tighter-than-they-should-be-good-fucking-lord jeans.

And neither of them had their coffees.

“Well it’s not that obvious to me! Maybe I need to have two satellite dishes like yours in front of my eyes to see!”

Marcel’s feels his blood boil a bit. “Only an idiot forgets the constant of gravity. Honestly, I don’t see why you can’t just _remember_!”

"Don't shout at me!" Louis bites back, throwing his pencil and crossing his arms. "What the fuck has you in such a mood today?"

And fine. _Fine._

He is clearly ticked off and maybe part of that is Marcel's fault but, god dammit, his morning hasn't exactly been a walk in the park either.

He doesn't say anything, opting instead to stay silent, simmering like a piece of broccoli. 

"Well don't just sit there all quiet."

Marcel bites his lip, looking up from his glasses. What exactly can he say? 

Louis sighs. "I guess I'm not exactly cooperating either. I had a rough morning." Marcel keeps looking at Louis intently, watching how he sticks his hand under the back of his beanie, scratching there nervously. "One of the twins--I have twin sisters, I mean--had a fever last night, so I stayed up watching her. Guess I didn't get enough sleep."

And in an instant, Marcel feels like the biggest prick in the world.

"Louis, I'm sorry.” He pauses. He doesn’t know what else to say that could make Louis feel any better. He offers a meek, “I didn't know you had a rough night." 

Louis smiles. "No worries, Mazza. She woke up without a fever this morning."

And, wow. That’s new. No one had ever called him Mazza before. Marcel's stomach flutters at the nickname. It sounds so effortless coming from Louis' pretty pink mouth, and he feels his cheeks color as he dwells on it. 

"Good, I'm glad."

"But," Louis sighs, gathering his papers, "I don't think I'll be prepared for the test on Monday. I thought I'd get it by the end of today, but I'm just as confused as when we started."

He frowns down at his assignments, picking up his pencil and scribbling down something Marcel can't read. 

"We could try again after school today?" Marcel tries, tucking a loose strand of hair back into his gelled mess. 

Louis groans. "But I have practice, and then a game. Fuck."

Marcel looks down at his hands folded in his lap. "I don't know what else, then."

His gaze moves up when he hears paper tear. Louis is offering the slip of paper towards him, placing it gingerly on Marcel’s notebook. "Tomorrow is Saturday, so maybe you could come over to my house around noon and we could work on it until I get it? We can even go to lunch, if you like."

Marcel's heart pounds against his ribs, threatening to break through. Meanwhile, his stomach does somersaults, dropping low into the pit of his belly and then jumping back up, seemingly slapping into his diaphragm. He feels a bit breathless. 

He remembers he should be answering a question, but he's not sure he trusts himself to speak. 

He nods.

Louis smiles brightly for the first time that morning, eyes crinkling the way that makes Marcel's racing heart stutter a bit. "Great! I look forward to it. I'm gonna get it this time." He's standing up, stuffing his folder with his papers and shoving them into his bag. He pauses. "You should come to the game tonight."

"See you around," Marcel manages, shaking his head, but smiling. 

Complete thought. Good. 

Louis' out the door with a wave and a grin when the bell rings, and Marcel just sinks into his chair, pulling of his glasses and rubbing his eyes. 

Too fucking early to be dealing with Louis Tomlinson and his shit.

 

~*~

 

He said noon.

Half twelve seems a reasonable time, right?

They live relatively close to each other, so Marcel walks. 

He's so nervous it's laughable, and it shows in the way he keeps tugging on his loose jumper, bringing the sleeves over his hands. It's slightly breezy and he feels strands of his hair flutter where they peak out from under his beanie. It's a mess of curls under the knit material and the thought makes Marcel somewhat self-conscious.  

He pushes his glasses farther up where they're slipping on his nose.

He peers at the numbers on the houses and feel something in the pit of his stomach when he sees the ones that Louis had scrawled down. 

Oh, _gosh._

He walks up the driveway and takes a few steadying breaths, shrugging his bag higher on his shoulder.

He feels faint, but he blames the walk.

With one last deep and dizzying breath, he brings knuckle up to knock.

Wait, should he use the doorbell?

Fuck, he should start going to other people's houses more often.

Except, that isn't really up to Marcel, is it? 

He's stalling. 

Finally, Marcel just presses in the general direction of the doorbell until he hears the answering chime.

"I'll get it!" Marcel hears someone yell, followed by,"No, Lottie, I'm gonna answer. _Go_ _away_."

Almost instantly, the door opens, and Marcel is met with a heart stopping sight. 

Louis greets him with flushed cheeks and a smile to light up an entire country. His eyes, though, _god._ Marcel would write sonnets about how incredibly captivating they are, shining a deep blue in the natural light the open door provides. 

In his arms is what makes Marcel's knees weak. 

He's balancing a girl around three years old, allowing her to wrap around him like a koala, and if Marcel had maternal instincts, they would be punching him in the gut right now. 

"Hi," Louis says, a little breathless.

"Hey," Marcel replies a bit awkwardly, shuffling in the doorway.

Louis must catch on because he then jumps a little, flushing deeper. "Oh, please, come in!" He's laughing under his breath and the sound is somewhat hysterical. "Do you want something to drink? I was just making a cuppa." Louis asks, leading them into the kitchen. He sets the toddler down and whispers in her ear. She nods vigorously and runs out of the kitchen.

Marcel feels his insides melt. "Tea would be great, thank you."

He takes in his surroundings. There's a lot of noise. Banging from the second floor followed by squeals and giggles. He looks back into the hall and sees the rows of framed pictures smiling at him and he feels his own lips twist up. The one that breaks a giggle from his lips is the image of a young Louis in a soccer jersey, smirking just how he would today.

He looks back to the real thing.

Louis sets out two mugs and waits for the kettle to boil. They stand in silence for a moment while Louis looks at him quizzically. They both peer over into the hall when they hear the chatting voices dim and then the sound of the door shut. They're alone in the house, Marcel concludes. He tries to swallow down his nerves.

"You look different today," Louis comments, gaze raking him over. "And I don't know why."

He coughs. "You're not one for detail, are you?"

"Now, now, leave the smart comments at home, Mazza." He moves over to him, still curious.

Then, his eyes widen. "Is that _curly hair_?"

"Oh, gosh--"

"It is!" Louis grins brightly, moving closer to pluck Marcel's beanie off. Curls spill over, fringe tickling his forehead and other stands the sides of his face. "You're proper curly, aren't you?" Louis says, voice laced with amazement.

Marcel's face ignites with embarrassment, his arms flailing wildly to get his knit hat back. "Give it back, Louis!" He's pleading with his voice, not willing to move his gaze up to Louis where the other boy is surely gawking, or ridiculing in some other way.

When he looks up, Louis is hiding the beanie behind his back. Marcel can feel something itching his eyes as he holds his hand out weakly. Louis seems to notice the change in demeanor because he hands it back wordlessly, using his free hand to push his own glasses up.

"Thanks."

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcel sees Louis cock his head. "Why do you gel your hair? Why hide the curls?"

Marcel tucks his hair away and adjusts his glasses, mirroring Louis' earlier movement. "I used to get picked on for it; back in fifth and sixth grade. People thought I looked dumb, I guess. They still do, but you can't exactly please everyone."

Louis looks genuinely concerned. "Well, I think you're lovely. With or without the curls, that is."

Another blush blooms over Marcel's cheeks, but for a different reason this time. He decides not to answer, not knowing how to interpret the compliment.

"Can I see you without the beanie? And your glasses?" Louis asks quietly. 

Marcel stares at him. "Why?"

He shrugs in what Marcel assumes is faux indifference. "Just curious, I guess."

It's an odd request, and poorly justified, but Marcel does as told. He slowly reaches up with one hand to tug of his hat and glasses, his other digging his nails into his palm, etching little crescent moons from the anxiety.

Louis gets closer and adjusts Marcel's hair, tugging it and combing it with nimble fingers, making the taller boy shut his eyes reflexively. It feels nice, unlike anything Marcel's ever felt before, and he _really_ likes it. He has to resist making a noise as Louis continues to card his finger through the wiry strands that wrap and curl over his digits. 

"It's so soft, holy shit."

Marcel feels a giggle bubble inside of him and it's so _stupid_. It get's caught in his throat when Louis tugs harder, experimentally. Marcel's lips part and he feels his head spin a little.

The contact ends and once again Marcel has to open his eyes.

Usually, he'd have trouble seeing anything further than five feet away, and, more often than not, that includes people. Where Louis is, however, allows him to come into sharp focus, startling Marcel a bit.

Those eyes he could write sonnets for are looking into his own with wonder. Up close, Marcel sees they're a grey sort of blue with a center that resembles gold dust. At least, that's all Marcel can tell with Louis' glasses in the way. 

"Your eyes are breathtaking, did you know?" Louis continues. Marcel's breath hitches because, for a moment, it sounded like Louis was voicing Marcel's own thoughts. "Like, you probably won't care that I think so, but you're proper fit, Marcel."

He steps back and hands Marcel his glasses and beanie.

And, wow, it’s suddenly suffocating. Marcel can't even feel his face anymore from the numbness of the heat that had taken permanent residence in his cheeks.

The kettle whistles and Louis walks over to it swiftly, shutting it off, busying himself gather mugs and sugar. Marcel wills his legs to move over to the kitchen table, sitting down at the closest chair.

"How do you take your tea?" he asks, calm as ever.

Meanwhile, Marcel battles what feels like cardiac arrest. "Two sugars, please."

Louis gasps, eyeing him sharply. "That's a sugar and a half too many, in my opinion."

"That's why it's your opinion," Marcel quips, albeit a bit timidly. He feels a little more at ease when hears a scoff in return. 

He's still not sure what hell happened less than ten minutes ago, but he's willing to feign nonchalance if Louis is. 

Louis walks over, a slight swing in his hips that Marcel most certainly does not notice. His hands are holding the mugs, so he brings his foot our to drag the chair back, plopping down when he deems it far out enough. 

"Right. So, physics." He smiles brightly, sipping gingerly from his mug.

Marcel opens his textbook and they get to work. 

Louis seems to be a bit reluctant at first, stalling by putting on music ("Bastille is amazing, Marcel, I _swear_.") and breaking into idle chat between problems. As much as Marcel enjoys the conversation, he has to keep reminding Louis that they've got work to accomplish, making the older boy pout. Louis also keeps insisting they need snacks, making Marcel roll his eyes fondly. He just keeps going back and forth from the fridge after every worksheet they complete and Marcel can't really argue when he gets to see Louis stride away.

By three, they've got an assortment of crisps and sweets around the table and two empty mugs of tea each. Marcel thinks he might be a bit sick. When five rolls around, Louis decides that his bum is numb and that four hours is enough without a break. 

"We've been stopping every two minutes," Marcel protests. 

"But, it's lunch time, obviously." Louis is insisting, pulling Marcel up and towards the door. 

“Technically it’s dinner time.”

“No, Maz, it’s late lunch time. Get with the program.” Louis seems pretty determined, so Marcel complies. Standing up, they walk into the hallway where Louis pulls on worn grey sneakers ( _they’re so tiny)_ and his letterman jacket.

"But what about your sisters?" Marcel asks, returning to reluctant. 

Louis pauses, looking at Marcel with something the younger boy can't describe. "I told them to go to the neighbors house. They're gonna be there till we're done. Honestly, Marcel, let me take you to lunch."

Marcel breathes out. _Platonic. Friendly. Not boyfriends._

“Okay.”

 


End file.
